Melodies and Making Memories (Sherlock Fanfiction)

melodies and making memories (one-shot)

Sherlock finished with a flourish, his bow gliding gracefully off of the strings and slicing through the air like a sword. The finishing note hung in the air and gently drifted downwards until only a distant memory of it remained. John’s ears strained to try and capture the sound again, to hear the clear melodic ring that seemed to dip and curve without the help of Sherlock’s bow. John could feel when the piece finally finished. It was not at the moment that Sherlock’s bow left the string, nor was it when Sherlock moved to place his violin under the crook of his arm. Instead it was when the silence finally overpowered the note, or even the longing for the note to reappear. Seconds passed before John felt it was appropriate to start clapping. The almost harsh cacophony of palm slapping against palm seemed inconsequential in showing his appreciation of Sherlock’s talent. John tried to express more with his eyes. He needed to show Sherlock how he really felt even if the words that swirled in his head were incredibly bland compared to the feelings he felt building inside of him.

John abruptly stood from his seat and walked towards Sherlock. He placed his hand gently on the neck of the violin and coerced it out of Sherlock’s grip. He turned his back to Sherlock and walked to the table to set the instrument down with precision and sensitivity, not wanting to break an object that could produce such beautiful sounds. Then, he turned to see Sherlock staring at him with such intensity he wondered why he did not feel flames on his skin. Sherlock’s hand still held the bow and as he walked forward the tip gently grazed over the carpet. Sherlock stopped in front of John. John could feel the genius’ breath gently coming and going from his mouth. Sherlock whispered, low and huskily, “Was it to your standards”. 

Sherlocks voice unraveled John. He lunged forward closing the gap between them. John placed both hands on Sherlock’s cheeks and roughly yanked Sherlocks head down. He needed less space between them, less separation. Soon enough John’s lips were pressed against Sherlock’s, at first forcefully, almost like his lips were a need that was demanding to be met. Soon the kiss deepened. Sherlock placed his arms around the small of John’s back, one hand still holding the violin bow. John was infatuated, submerged in water, not able to breath but feeling more alive than ever. Every touch was thrilling and every brush of lips and teeth was electrifying. As John nipped at Sherlock’s lower lip Sherlock growled, and the vibrations flew through John’s whole entire body, finally dissolving into the ground. It was like a drug John could not have enough of. Sherlock dropped the violin bow and pulled John’s body even closer to him. John melted into Sherlock, while deepening the kiss even more. John did not ever want to take a breath, his oxygen was coming from Sherlock’s gasps that he so desperately needed. They were sustaining him. He was filled with a sense of completeness, like he had been missing a puzzle piece of his being that was being filled by the very aura of this incredible man in front of him. 

John finally had to succumb to his human needs. He broke the kiss off and pressed his forehead gently to Sherlock’s, bracing himself as he gulped in the fire warmed air that surrounded them. He could feel the same air coming from Sherlock, and their breaths mingled in the tiny space between them, swirling and jumping and mixing before disappearing. John’s hand slid down from Sherlock’s face to his black suit jacket which he clutched at first, then gently rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock chuckled and raised his head up to kiss John’s forehead with his swollen and red lips. He brought his army doctor into his chest and placed his chin into John’s hair. Sherlocks lips gently curved into a smile. His mind palace was completely full, every single room was filled with John. And Sherlock loved it. 

 Outside, the swirling of snow was the complete opposite of the warm, crackling fire inside. The faint sound of Christmas carols could be heard from the street below, and Sherlock gently swayed to the music, his arms still holding John tightly to his chest. John breathed in Sherlock’s intoxicating scent, closed his eyes, and decided that yes, this was the best Christmas he could ever have hoped for.